Reveille

Field Marshal Turkish von Turkenstein (commander, 1st Feline Home Defense Regiment) decided to conduct an impromptu drill at 4 a.m. and as a consequence the troops are slightly groggy despite two cups of coffee and one of tea.

29 Responses to “Reveille”

(Warning: salty language follows)
I can totally picture her kicking over some trash cans*, slamming some foot locker lids, and screaming, “Drop your cocks and grab your socks, maggots!! You’re already late! Moving like pond water!!! Now get up and get out there!!!”

* Troops can’t have food in their barracks during basic training, so there’s almost no reason to have a garbage can at all, let alone a 55 gallon steel one, except for the fact that they make so much noise when I drill sergeant kicks them at oh-dark-thirty.

Had the pleasure of that garbage can skit when I was in NROTC summer training back in my college daze. Down at Camp Lejune, the Gunny kicked the can down the middle of the barracks at oh-shit-thirty just to make us middies feel at home. I suppose I should set up a computer program to play that back at 0530 when I get up. Assuming that the cat has not smacked me across the face yet to wake me for feeding time.

Don’t remember the Gunny at Lejune. Tried my hardest to forget that summer, after which I bailed out of NROTC after two of the worst weeks of my life at NAS Corpus Christi, where I managed to get a navy officer busted and he wanted to get into a fistfight with me. And, where I ended up doing two weeks of running the obstacle course with a bunch of pulled muscles in my shoulder.

That is interesting. I noticed how fine Turk’s coat was in other pictures.
When we first adopted Duffy, the vet said he was about 1 year old, he would lunge on the lead at any other dog close by. Finally the basic obedience trainer told us to try a squirt bottle for a week along with the “leave it” command. One week was all it took. The behavior didn’t return, and he successfully completed the course.

Those are great cartoons, MD. And that’s about what the Turk did to me the other morning. I was sleeping on my left side and he jumped into the bed, clambered up on my right side, stretched himself out atop me like I was a pillow-top mattress, pulled back the covers with one paw, and stuck his snoot right in my ear: “Purrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrr.”

Yeah, you really have to keep a weather eye on the Turk, too. If he does what we call his “fluffy-bunny” routine, flopping down on the floor and rolling around luxuriously — “Look at me, aren’t I beautiful?” — you want to rethink the notion of reaching down to give him a friendly rub. He’s ornery and fast.

Also nervous. If the Turk is lounging in your lap and something loud happens on TV his departure will be hard on your furniture, clothing and epidermis.

He does like his bed time, though. He spends a half hour or so in the sack with us while we read and insists on a few minutes perched atop my rib cage for some ear-scratching and neck rubbing. Then he stretches out alongside me for a short snooze.

We have to evict him and close the door to sleep through the night, though. And as with last night, sometimes that doesn’t even work. Sounded like Mike Tyson was beating on the door this morning.

No, but he’s a big ol’ boy. He goes about 17 pounds these days. He’s at least part Turkish Van, which is a breed that enjoys swimming. But Vans generally have multicolored tails, and his is all white. He does have the black cap, though, and his bright blue eyes would put Paul Newman’s to shame.

Aw, Libby, I’m sorry to hear that. We wept like babies when our previous cat, Ike (a.k.a. Chairman Meow) died suddenly of an enlarged heart we knew nothing about. Those are awful days, when a furry friend goes west.

But we enjoyed a bit of astoundingly good fortune shortly thereafter when Miss Mia Sopaipilla picked us from her cell at the Humane Society. We went her bail, brought her home, nursed her through that rotten feline respiratory bug they all seem to get down there, and she’s been an absolute joy to have around ever since. Best head bumps ever, and that’s no lie.

I hope you find yourself another furry pal soon. There are days when I wonder, and occasionally aloud, “Why the hell do we have all these animals underfoot all the bloody time?” But I can’t imagine the place without them.

Ain’t that the truth! After the Mighty Beaumaster returned to the source, we went without a dog for two years. All the freedom to travel and go without worry didn’t mean much, and the house seemed empty even when we were home. So, saw Duffy on the Pet Finder after a frutiless search for a small poodle mix at the local slammer, and off we went to the Santa Cruz Humane Society in Nogales. Sandy walked 3 other dogs while I hung out at Duffy’s pen. He had me with the first head tilt.

Yeah, I took it very hard when our Bailey died some years back. Resisted getting another for years because I didn’t want to go through that loss again. Here I am though, now, with three little furry turdbuckets.

Sorry, Libby. Getting through that vacuum is tough. IIRC it was POG who said they’re all little tragedies waiting to happen. It’s been a couple of years here, about time to add a small auxiliary cat (thank you Dave Barry) to the mix. Hang in there.